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In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,
9. FIRST OF NOVEMBER,—the earthquake day,There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, A general lavor of mild decay, But nothing local, as one may say. There could n't be, for the Deacon's art Had made it so like in every part That there was n't a chance for one to start. For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, And the floor was just as strong as the sills, And the panels just as strong as the floor, And the whippletree neither less nor more, And the back crossbar as strong as the fore, And spring and axle and hub encore. And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt In another hour it will be worn out !
10. First of November, fifty-five !
Then something decidedly like a spill,
11. End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
J. H. SIDDONS. 1. The first requisites for travel in the old world are a passport, an adequate supply of coin, a few hints regarding costume and letters of introduction, and a carte du pays, comprehending definite information relative to points of attraction, hotels, railway changes, places of entertainment and instruction, peculiarity of usages, etc.; in fact, as much as, and no more than, may be studied and almost got by heart, on the voyage across the Atlantic. Similar information is requisite for the European traveler who should direct his attention to the United States and South America. There is a prodigious amount of ignorance on both sides of the ocean which separates the two hemispheres; and ignorance, we know, is the parent of prejudice,-one of the worst traveling companions a gentleman or lady could possibly have. All should
enter, as far as possible, upon a voyage or journey, with a resolution to cast away every preconceived bias of an unfavorable character, and to judge for themselves of the nations they visit for the first time.
2. And one of the most certain methods of rubbing off the crust of prejudice, is to enter fully into conversation with fellow-travelers. Reserve and taciturnity, whether originating in pride, modesty, timidity, or excess of caution, are fatal to an accumulation of accurate and extensive knowledge, and often deprive the traveler of the opportunity of making pleasant acquaintances. On the other hand, too much freedom and volubility are only productive of the acquisition and communication of superficial knowledge. A discreet mind will know how to draw the distinction; but it will be better, as a rule, to crr on the side of freedom and familiarity than to learn nothing by preserving a starched and cold demeanor.
3. It is the almost invariable practice with the new arrival in any great town in Europe, to put himself in the hands of a commissioner or valet de place, who is to show him everything and manage his affairs during his stay. This should be avoided, if possible, and there is no reason why it should not always be avoided. The expense of having such an article as a vulgar, ignorant, and obtrusive lackey tied to you and your wife (if you have one) is very considerable, and if he is intrusted to make purchases or pay bills for you, the chances are that you will be plundered considerably.
4. But this is not the worst feature of a traveler's dependence on such a person. He is pretty sure to carry you only just where he pleases, and to tell you so much as suits his convenience. If you are desirous of visiting a place of which some account has been given by a friend, or in some work
you have read, it is not improbable that the valet will immediately attempt to depreciate the place and deny the authenticity of the description, unless, indeed, he is inclined to accompany you, and expects to profit by the transaction.
5. Equally distrustful and inconvenient with these persons are the guides, or ciceroni, attached to certain palaces and other public places of attraction. They either gabble on with their rote description, or are morosely silent until asked questions, when they give the briefest replies in broken English or broken French, neither of which is very intelligible to the hearer. In Great Britain, of course, you get tolerably pure English from those people, but they are not free from the vice of telling their story rapidly-it is the same tale to everybody, delivered in the tone of an individual who is heartily sick of repeating the same thing a dozen times a day for months together. Interrupt any one of them with a proper question, and the thread of the story is broken—the question only answered with “I don't know," and then the narrative is recommenced, that the narrator may get back with safety to the place whence he or she departed.
6. I remember visiting Melrose Abbey, in Scotland, celebrated in Walter Scott's beautiful poem, “The Lay of the Last Minstrel.” As the guide was deliberately telling the story of the visit of William of Deloraine and the monk to the tomb of Michael Scott, the Wizard, I ventured to interrupt him with some remarks on the apocryphal character of the tale, upon which he turned round upon me and fiercely exclaimed, “ It's a'true, for it is written in Walter Scott's buik”! It was some time before he could recover his temper and the course of his narrative; and when all was over I pointed to a pile of stones, among which was a carved head of the Savior. “That,” said he, “is a head of Jupiter, found here among the ruins.”
“Nonsense,” I irreverently replied; “ Jupiter was a heathen god, and the monks would never have had his image here.” " And what for no ?” rejoined my irascible guide. “Were not a'the monks heathens ? Isn't their religion heathenish?”
7. There was no battling with so obstinate a zealot, so I held my peace. At Abbottsford there are old guides, pensioners of the Scott family, who are as deaf as posts, and to half the questions put to them by inquiring and curious visitors, reply, “I dinna ken-I never heard.” What satisfaction can result from such guidance? It is as bad in France. If the description of the contents of the Gallery of Versailles be not read before a person goes to that glorious place of art, he will come away as wise as he went, for all he may get from the chaperon.
reaza XXIII. — THE LYRE.
High waving in the summer air ;
And left to breathe its music there.
Awoke a wilder, sweeter strain
In coral grottoes of the main.
2. When, springing from the rose's bell,
Where all night he had sweetly slept,
Bright with the tears that morning wept,
Waved lightly his soft azure wing;